


Don’t Tempt Me With a Good Time

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Series: Temptation [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Peter Parker, Bottom Peter Parker, Canonical Character Death, Coerced Consent, Daddy Issues, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, FFH SPOILERS, Fake Fluff, First Time, Illusions, Language, Lies, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Manipulation, Mind the Tags, Mostly Canon Compliant, My family can never know about this, Older Man/Younger Man, POV Quentin Beck, Pet Names, Peter Parker is a Mess, Porn With Plot, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Quentin Beck is a sexual predator, Quentin Beck is the actual worst, Quentin wants to hurt Peter, Really use condoms, Seriously Quentin is horrible, Sexual Fantasy, Statutory Rape, Trash Ship, Underage Sex, Unreliable Narrator, Unsafe Sex, predatory behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 05:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19900375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: That’s one avenue to E.D.I.T.H. he hadn’t considered.





	Don’t Tempt Me With a Good Time

**Author's Note:**

> One day fic? I can do zat!
> 
> Seriously though, I have no self control AT ALL, so have this. The same applies as for part one, technically statutory rape, etc. Read at your own peril.

_All of this is way too easy,_ Quentin thinks as he watches the boy next to him, perched on a barstool and staring into his lemonade. It _can’t_ be this easy, can it? Peter Parker is supposed to be one of the smartest people of his generation, possibly on the planet, and he’s just going to buy into the frankly ridiculous story Guterman cooked up after reading one too many comic books? Quentin doesn’t want to believe it. _Like taking a lollipop from a baby_ , he thinks. 

Peter is so obviously grieving for Stark, like the whole damn world seems to be, so desperate for a father figure, he almost feels bad for the kid. Almost. 

He listens when Peter starts rambling about the multiverse, about the possibilities, and he has to admit listening to the boy go on about something he’s obviously passionate about is… intriguing, and he can’t help but lob ideas back and forth with Peter. He can discuss this stuff with some people in his team, too, sure, but none of them have this unbridled enthusiasm for the subject that Peter’s youth affords him. Before he knows it, they have been deep into the subject for half an hour, when Peter starts shifting on his stool, and when he excuses himself and walks off to find the toilet, stiff legged and adjusting himself not nearly as subtly as he thinks, Quentin thinks, _oh_. 

That’s one avenue to E.D.I.T.H. he hadn’t considered. 

The kid is attractive, sure. Quentin has working eyes, after all, and he would be lying if he said he hadn’t wondered what the kid would look like on his knees, looking up at him with those doe eyes of his, but then again, he wonders that about pretty much everyone he meets. ‘Pretend people are naked’ cranked all the way up. 

But now, with Peter… This may actually be a possibility. 

He waits until the door to the bathroom falls closed behind the kid before he waves his people over. “Change of plan,” he says, and when he gives them their instructions, he thinks he sees… disapproval on some of their faces. _Hilarious_ , he thinks to himself. Killing the kid, that they’re okay with. Fucking him first? That’s crossing a line, for some weird reason. 

After ten minutes, he hops off his own stool and walks over to the bathroom, pushes the door open without much fanfare. For a second, he can hear the tell-tale sounds of somebody jerking off, the slide of flesh, the harsh breathing, and then there is very deliberate silence. He grins to himself before he schools his face into a look of calm curiosity, lets the door fall closed behind him as he leans against the frame. “Peter? You okay in there?” 

“Uh. Yes?” The kid’s voice is high, breaking with the embarrassment of being caught, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. Peter tugs up his clothes, flushes, and when he steps out of the stall, his face is beet red, the flush going all the way down the back of his neck. Quentin wonders how far down it really goes. 

He stays silent while Peter washes his hands, unnecessarily long, and when the boy is finally done, he can no longer keep his amusement to himself, smiling softly as Peter blushes harder. 

“I was just...” 

_You’re not fooling anybody, kid_ , he thinks, before he cocks his head a little. “Peter, you don’t have to explain.” He steps away from the door, waves a hand at the kid. “You’re a healthy young man, you’re probably still filled to the gills with adrenaline… It’s only natural,” and he pauses, thinks to himself, _Here goes nothing_ , before he very deliberately looks Peter up and down, lets his eyes linger for a second on his poorly hidden erection, as he lets his smile grow a little wicked, “that you’d have to let off some steam.” 

Incredibly, Peter blushes even more, and it’s delicious. “I swear I wasn’t-” 

Quentin closes the distance between them with two quick steps, the kid’s mouth hanging open mid-sentence and his eyes widening, as he reaches down and slides his hand between Peter’s legs. “Weren’t you,” he asks, and Peter’s internal struggle plays across his face for all to see. Quentin just holds his hand there, slight pressure against Peter’s dick, and finally the boy moves, pushes his hips forward, whimpering, and it’s exactly what Quentin had hoped it would be. 

“Want me to walk you home,” he says, even though he knows the answer already. There is no way Peter is going to say no to him, none at all, but damn, having the kid be complicit in this? Might be the best part of it all, and when Peter nods, he allows himself a smile.

*~*~*~*~*~* 

Following Peter into the hotel is one of the funniest things he has done in a long while. The kid is jumpy, as though he expects an attacker behind every corner, when in reality he’s probably just scared they’ll run into the other kids or the teachers, and wouldn’t that be a spectacle? He’d actually pay good money to watch Peter try to explain his presence and appearance away.  


Peter’s hands tighten by his sides every now and again as he walks, as if he’s trying to gather the courage to say something, probably to tell Quentin to go to hell, and when they finally stop in front of his room, after he has unlocked the door, he squares his shoulders and turns, but when Quentin smiles down at him, he falters. 

“You gonna invite me in,” he asks, quietly, lets his voice drop a little, and Peter shudders. Quentin feels himself stir at the look the boy gives him, heat building in his belly, intensifying when a look of mild panic appears on Peter’s face. 

“Uh...” he says again, obviously torn, and then somebody opens a door somewhere down the hallway and Peter reacts, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the room, throws the door closed behind them. Peter is breathing hard, leaning his head against the door, hands splayed on the wood, and Quentin wants to just tug down his pants and fuck him right there, up against the door, Peter’s fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surface, and the thought is so powerful he has to take a breath and take a mental step back. 

Instead he moves into Peter’s space, until he can feel the heat of his body even through their armour. He puts his arms around the boy’s waist, moves closer until he’s sure Peter can feel his breath against his skin when he speaks. “You know, I’ve been wondering about you,” he says, noting how Peter goes rigid for a moment, and he smiles to himself. “If you, pardon the pun, swung this way.” 

“Wh-why would you wonder about that?” Again, Peter’s voice turns a little squeaky, and he can’t help imaging the kid as a rabbit, petrified before a snake. “I mean, y-you had a wife, didn’t you?” 

_Right._ The dead wife. He keeps forgetting about that. He chuckles, just once, watches how goosebumps pepper Peter’s skin, from his neck down, disappearing into the collar of his jumper. “Don’t tell me you don’t have bisexuality in this universe.” 

“No, I mean, yes, we do, it’s just...” 

“You’re cute when you’re nervous, you know that,” he asks, and oddly enough, it’s true. The stammering and the obvious insecurity ought to be a turn-off, but it only makes the boy more enticing to him. And so he tugs, pulls Peter against his chest, closes his arms more tightly around him, and Peter’s breath hitches. “You think too much, Peter,” he says, leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of Peter’s ear. “Just enjoy the ride.” 

He kisses Peter then, his neck, his throat, along his jugular, the kid’s pulse racing beneath the skin, and when he sucks Peter’s earlobe into his mouth, he gasps, moans when Quentin scrapes his teeth over his skin. He’s hard, now, what began as curiosity and mere physical attraction morphed into lust, and he hums against Peter’s skin when the kid pushes his ass back, against Quentin’s dick. _Go slow,_ he tells himself, even when all he wants is to push Peter to his knees, wants to force himself into Peter’s mouth and down his throat, wants to see those trusting eyes grow wet with tears as Peter chokes around him. 

Instead, he kisses the boy’s throat again and turns him around, says, “Come here, beautiful,” but when Peter’s eyes widen ever so slightly, he can tell he’s not hiding his thoughts half as well as he should. He cradles Peter’s jaw then, with both hands, gently, gently, leans down. “Let me make you feel good,” he breathes against Peter’s mouth, and Peter’s eyes slide closed. 

_Slowly_ , he thinks, again, as he presses a kiss to the boy’s mouth, just a simple, chaste peck on the lips, waits. He wants to see what Peter will do, and he’s not disappointed when Peter sighs softly and opens his mouth, when his tongue begs entrance into Quentin’s mouth, and he lets the kid dangle for a moment, until he can feel him stiffening, preparing himself for rejection. Only when he feels Peter start to pull away does he move his hand, from his jaw into Peter’s hair, tilting the kid’s head as he opens his mouth, as he lets him push his tongue inside. There’s the citrusy aftertaste of the lemonade, and he closes his lips around Peter’s tongue for a moment, sucks on it as he pushes his other hand under his shirt, up his back, and he thinks Peter is going to come into his pants right then and there. 

The boy pulls back, voice high with his desire. “Mister Beck, I...” 

His groin tightens, and he briefly wonders what Peter is going to call him once Quentin gets his dick into him. He would not be even a little bit surprised if the kid defaulted to ‘daddy’. “Quentin, remember?” He lets his hand drop down to Peter’s neck, holding him in place loosely, and gives him an encouraging look. 

“Yes, sir,” the boy says, and Quentin twitches in his pants, both at the phrasing and the look of mild horror that passes over Peter’s face. “I just...” Peter draws a deep breath, and then he says, “I’ve never had sex before.” 

Time slows down as Quentin’s brain processes what Peter just admitted, as he realises that Peter isn’t just inexperienced, no, he’s a god damn _virgin_. He watches more self-doubt and embarrassment play over Peter’s face, and he thinks, _It’s a good thing you wear a mask, you’re the world’s shittiest poker player_ , before the full importance of Peter’s revelation really hits him. 

If he wants Peter to hand over E.D.I.T.H. after this, he needs to tread very, very carefully now. Still, so far, Peter has responded very well to a bit of man-handling, and so he winds an arm around the boy’s waist and lifts him up, smiles when Peter closes his legs around his waist, and he moves, traps Peter’s body between his own and the wall. He grinds his dick against Peter’s with a hiss, kisses him again, and Peter whimpers into his mouth. 

“God, you’re gorgeous, darling,” he breathes as he kisses down Peter’s neck, as he scrapes his teeth over the boy’s collar bone, and Peter’s thighs tighten around his waist. It’s true, the kid is too beautiful for his own good, and Quentin wants nothing more than _wreck him_. “If you want me to stop, tell me,” he grinds out as he pulls Peter closer, as he holds onto him with more force than he really needs to, and Peter murmurs, “What do I say to get you out of your costume?” 

_Fucking hell_ , Quentin thinks as he leans back slightly, so he can look at the kid, as he smirks at him. “That depends. Think you can handle it?” 

Peter may be insecure, inexperienced, what have you, but he’s still a teenager, and no teenager can resist a challenge like that, Quentin knows, and he gets his confirmation when Peter pushes his fingers into his hair, when he pulls Quentin’s face down to kiss him. It’s delicious, and so much easier than Quentin thought it could be. 

He always forgets what a pain getting out of his suit is, but Peter is eager to help, and so he doesn’t complain, especially not when Peter lets him peel him out of his. The kid is just growing into adulthood, limbs still a little gangly but his muscles well defined, skin smooth and unblemished. For a brief moment, Quentin feels… well, old, next to him, until Peter licks his lips as he watches him, and he smirks. “Come here,” he says, and Peter obeys. 

Quentin kisses him again, slowly, softly, before he leads Peter onto the bed. He looks down at the boy, at the trust in his eyes, and he thinks, _I should feel bad about this_ , but he really, _really_ doesn’t. He lies down next to Peter, pulls him closer, and kisses him again, swallows Peter’s whimper, until the kid is boneless beside him, eyes closed and a lovely pink high on his cheeks. 

He lets his hand wander then, over Peter’s throat, thinking how well his hand fits around it. It would be so easy, to grip just a little tighter, to watch the panic enter Peter’s eyes as his airway closes up, the relief when Quentin would let go again. _No, not now_ , and so he keeps going, down to the kid’s chest, where he rubs his thumb over Peter’s nipple, back and forth, until Peter can’t contain his impatience any longer, whining softly. 

Quentin chuckles, strokes his thumb around the areola, softly. “Just can’t wait, can you,” he asks, and then he decides, fuck it. He takes hold of Peter’s nipple with thumb and finger and twists, hard, and Peter gasps, twitches against him, moving with the pain. His eyes widen and his mouth stays open, and Quentin sees his feet move at the edge of his vision. _Well. Interesting_. “Did you like that,” he asks, watches Peter’s throat bob as he swallows, nods, and he can’t quite contain his grin. “Use your words, honey,” he says, like Peter is a child, because he needs to hear it, needs to have Peter confirm it, to give him permission to do these things to him. 

Should Peter ever find out the truth, it’ll just be all the more delicious. 

Again, Peter swallows, licks his lips, and his voice breaks when he says, “Yes,” his eyes slipping away from Quentin’s face, “I like it.” 

He lets his smile soften as he strokes his hand over the boy’s ribcage, before he kisses him. “Good boy,” he breathes into the space between them, and Peter shudders. 

Quentin’s hand moves, further down, down, over his slim waist and narrow hips, until he can push his fingers into Peter’s boxers, until he can stroke the soft skin at Peter’s tail bone, and Peter goes still for a moment, until he becomes restless again, his hands opening and closing between them. “Please, I...” 

He smirks, lowers his voice, lets it go dark and sensual. “What do you need,” he asks, and Peter puts an arm around him and moves closer. Quentin can feel his dick, hard and leaking through his boxers, against his stomach. 

“I don’t know,” Peter whispers, and he huffs a laugh. 

“Maybe this?” He leans down and kisses Peter’s temple, the top of his head, his nose, chaste and clearly _not_ what Peter wants, when he shakes his head, and so Quentin pushes his thigh between Peter’s legs, until the boy rubs himself against it with a moan. He nudges Peter’s head up, kisses him again, asks, “Or maybe this,” as he moves his hand further, pushes one finger between Peter’s cheeks, teasing at his entrance, and Peter goes rigid against him. 

_Okay, maybe not_ , he thinks, pulls back his hand. Pushes down the heat of disappointment burning in his belly. Gentles his voice. “Too much? I can stop if you want me to.” 

Peter’s reaction is instantaneous and more forceful than Quentin expected. “No! I just… I didn’t expect it, that’s all.” 

He smiles, bites back his relief. “Alright,” he says, catches Peter’s eye. Trusts his luck. “Do you want it?” 

Again, Peter’s throat bobs visibly as he swallows, hard, and then he breathes, “Yes. Please.” 

Now he knows he can’t quite hide his feeling of triumph when Peter blushes so prettily, and he kisses the boy, long and deep, before he tells him to take off his boxers. He watches as Peter shuffles out of them, as he kicks them off the bed, and asks, “Front or back.” He’s a little disappointed when Peter chooses to lie on his front; he would have enjoyed seeing the look on the kid’s face when he fucks him open, but still. He looks down at the curve of Peter’s ass, the valley of his lower back, and thinks, _This isn’t bad either._

He strokes his hands over Peter’s back, from his shoulder blades down, over his ass, cups one cheek, and Peter gives a little sigh and pushes his hips into the bed. Quentin huffs a laugh, squeezes Peter’s ass. “Slow down there, tiger,” he says as he leans down, until his breath whispers against Peter’s ear. “If we’re gonna do this, I want you to come on my dick.” 

The sound Peter makes at that is pure pornography, and he wants to remember it forever. 

He pushes two fingers into Peter’s mouth, gently, pleased when he parts his lips without protest. He lets them rest on the boy’s tongue for a moment, feels Peter’s mouth fill with saliva, and then Peter closes his lips around his fingers and _sucks_ , and Quentin hisses, pushes his other hand into Peter’s hair. “That’s it, honey,” he murmurs, “get them nice and wet for me,” and Peter hums. 

When he pulls his fingers free, Peter stiffens slightly, obviously mentally preparing himself, and Quentin smiles before he lies down next to him, moves as close to him as he can, as he lets his hand rest on the curve of Peter’s ass. He kisses the boy again, slowly, until the tension melts out of his limbs, and then he gently runs the tips of his fingers over Peter’s entrance. Again, Peter tenses, but he knows it’s just a reflex. He strokes Peter with the blunt tip of his middle finger, and asks, “Do you trust me,” and Peter takes a breath and makes himself relax, and the resistance is gone and his finger is halfway inside the boy. 

Peter groans, his fingers fisting the sheets, and Quentin bites his lip, hard. The boy is tight, so much tighter than Quentin expected, and he has to wait almost a minute before Peter relaxes enough for him to move. “That’s it, honey,” he says, quietly, “nice and slow,” and Peter whimpers. 

And slowly he goes, letting Peter set the pace, until the boy tilts his hips, until he’s panting, until he says, “Please, Mister Beck, _please_ ,” and it takes all his willpower to stop himself from just shoving his dick into Peter right then and there. Instead, he spits on his hand as he sits up, spreads it around and pushes two fingers into the kid, and Peter gives a long, high-pitched whine. 

Finally, finally, after what feels like hours, Peter is loose and relaxed enough to possibly even take a third finger, but Quentin is done waiting. Instead, he takes his hand away as he leans down, as he kisses Peter’s temple. “I’m going to fuck you now, darling,” he says, and Peter shudders and moans, and Quentin doubts the boy is going to last long. He pushes off his underwear and lies next to Peter, one leg thrown over him and his dick digging into his thigh, and he wants Peter so much it hurts, almost. “Do you want that? Tell me,” he commands, and Peter whispers, “Yes, yes, I want it.” 

Quentin smirks, he almost feels sorry for the kid. “Full sentences, honey. You’re too smart for half-answers,” he says, and Peter almost gets flustered again. 

“Yes, Mister Beck, sorry. I… I want you to fuck me. Please.” 

_Jesus Christ_ , he thinks, as he kisses him again, softly, as tells him again, “Good boy.” He sits up, straddles Peter’s thighs, and spits again, spreads it over Peter’s ass, over his dick. For a moment, he lets it rest between Peter’s cheeks, rubs himself against the boy once, twice. “You wanna hold yourself open for me, that makes it easier,” he says, because damn it, he finds he actually _wants_ to make this good for Peter. Later, things might be different, but now, he doesn’t want to hurt him. 

He’ll never get E.D.I.T.H. if he does. 

Peter is so eager to please, it’s almost comical, as he reaches back and spreads himself, and Quentin groans at the image. “God, you’re so good for me, darling,” he says, and then he tilts his hips and pushes. 

His mind goes blank for a long moment because _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Peter feels fucking _fantastic_. He gasps, and Quentin watches his fingers tighten, watches them dig into Peter’s cheeks. “Oh, oh, _fuck_ , Mister Beck, I-” 

“Sssh,” he murmurs, “it’s okay honey, just breathe, you’re doing so well,” and he really is, he’s taking Quentin’s dick beautifully, and when Peter breathes, deeply, he relaxes, just enough, and Quentin pushes himself deeper with a groan. “Yes, just like that, darling, just like that.” 

Peter is shaking beneath him, and when Quentin is finally, finally, all the way inside him, Peter throws his head back with a whimper. It’s beautiful, and Quentin feels a rush of power. He puts his hand on Peter’s throat again, holds him in place, gently but firmly, asks, “You okay, Pete?” 

Peter whimpers, nods, his throat bobbing, “Yes, I’m-”, and Quentin rolls his hips, once, and Peter gasps. 

_Joke’s on you, Stark,_ he thinks, _this is the one thing I have that you never will_ , and then he starts moving, slow, gentle thrusts, just to get Peter used to the sensation, and it doesn’t take long at all until Peter tilts his hips again, so he can go deeper. 

The kid has a mouth on him, he finds, when Peter starts babbling, starts begging, and every single, “Yes, please, sir,” every, “Please, harder, _harder_ ,” every gasped, “Oh _fuck_ ,” is like music to Quentin’s ears. When Peter lifts his hips off the bed, he grabs hold of them and pulls, until Peter is on his knees, his ass in the air, and he bends over him and kisses his back, calls him, “Such a good boy, such a good little slut,” groans when Peter tightens impossibly around him. Calls him, “My darling,” and Peter whimpers into the pillow. 

Peter is close, he can tell, and he reaches under the kid and wraps his hand around Peter’s dick. It’s leaking like hell, and he’s almost afraid Peter will come right then. “Do you want to come, darling,” he asks, strokes him, once, twice, and Peter whimpers and fucks himself back onto Quentin’s dick. 

“Please, Mister Beck, can I?” 

_Damn it all to hell_ , he thinks, groaning into Peter’s shoulder, and he knows his grip must be bordering on painful. “God, could you be any more perfect,” he bites out, and he twists his wrist, before he straightens, taking hold of Peter’s hips. “Go ahead, touch yourself if you want,” he instructs, and then he lets go. He _fucks_ Peter, hard and relentless, and Peter _screams_ , tries to smother it in the pillow even as he takes hold of his dick, and then he’s coming, his ass gripping Quentin like a vice, and Quentin fucks him through it, because he just wants to listen to that lovely scream a little longer. 

His vision whites out when he, too, comes, and he bites out a string of curses as he keeps pounding into Peter, until finally, he collapses on top of him, gasping for air. He rolls to the side, holding Peter to him, still buried inside the boy, and his dick twitches weakly when Peter whimpers. 

“That was absolutely amazing,” he says, still out of breath, and kisses the back of Peter’s neck, strokes his fingers over Peter’s chest. “You were amazing,” he breathes, and Peter gives a happy little hum. 

“Yeah,” he says, “it was… You, too.” 

Another kiss, and he says, “Let’s maybe keep this to ourselves, yeah? Fury doesn’t need to know,” and Peter’s skin heats up under his lips, his sheer horror at the thought apparent. 

Quentin isn’t the cuddly type, usually, but he really doesn’t want to move just yet, and so he stays there, with his arm around Peter, until he has softened and slid out of the kid. One more kiss, before he gets to his feet. Peter looks up at him, looking completely fucked out, and he wishes he could take a picture. “Can I use your shower?” 

“Sure,” Peter says, and when he looks back before he closes the bathroom door, Peter is grinning up at the ceiling. 

He, too, feels thoroughly fucked as he stands under the shower spray, and for a brief second he thinks that, even if he doesn’t get E.D.I.T.H., this has been worth it. 

When he’s done and goes back into the bedroom, Peter watches him with undisguised desire, licking his lips, and Quentin smirks and pulls him to the edge of the bed, holding him in place, and the sound coming out of Peter’s mouth when Quentin swallows him down is enough to last him a lifetime. After, when he pushes himself back into Peter, who is still wet and open, he is almost sorry that he might have to kill him sometime in the future, even more so when Peter starts crying as he comes, when he starts begging him to stop because it’s just, “too much, oh _god_ , please, Mister Beck, _please_ ,” and Quentin pushes himself in as deep as he can go when he comes. 

Peter curls up on his side in bed, after, so trusting and frankly lovely, and Quentin half hopes they will never cross paths again.

*~*~*~*~*~* 

He jerks awake half an hour later, when somebody knocks on the door, and as Peter picks up the towel he dropped after his shower and goes to answer, he rolls out of bed quietly and pulls on his underwear, half listening. A girl, and he has to roll his eyes at Peter’s unskilled proposal. When she leaves, Peter leans against the door, grinning to himself.  


“That your girlfriend,” he hears himself ask then, and Peter looks up at him, startled. He looks like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar, an impression that only deepens when he mumbles, “N-no, she’s… She’s in my class. We’re… kind of friends, I guess.” 

_Sure_ , he thinks, _just friends_. “But you like her,” he says as he finishes pulling on his socks and gets to his feet. _God damn teenagers_ , he thinks as he picks up his pants. 

“I, uh...” 

“Peter, it’s okay,” he says, makes himself smile at Peter as he walks over to him, as he kisses him again. “I’m not jealous,” and really, he’s not. Even if they get together, he got there first, after all. 

Peter shuffles his feet, ruffles his own hair. “Yeah, I… I do like her.” 

“Then you’d better get dressed before she decides you’re not going to show up,” he says before he turns away to gather the rest of his stuff. 

He can hear Peter moving about behind him as he pulls on his shirt, as he straps himself back into his armour. He really needs to have words with Janice, they need to come up with something less complicated. 

“Mister Beck?” 

“Hm?” He’s not really paying attention, to be honest, fighting with the fucking cape, and only looks up when Peter holds something out to him. 

“I… I think you should have them,” he says, E.D.I.T.H. folded in the palm of his hand. 

Quentin stares at Peter, at the glasses, and he makes himself shake his head. “No, Peter, Stark left them to you. There’s a reason for that.” And he half suspects the reason is that Stark was an idealistic fool who put way too much stock into this kid’s abilities, but he’s not going to say that out loud, is he? 

Peter keeps holding them out, a determined look on his face. “Please, at least try them on.” 

_Keep it together,_ he thinks, as he takes the glasses and puts them on, and when Peter looks at him, his eyes are wet. He motions at the mirror, says, “See? Perfect.” 

Quentin lifts his eyes to the mirror, and his breath catches. It’s… eerie. _No wonder the kid was so eager to let you fuck him_ , he thinks, with how much he looks like Stark with these. Finally he takes them off again, holds them out to Peter. “Peter, I can’t accept this. This is a huge responsibility.” He pushes them into Peter’s hand, even though the boy makes a noise of protest. “No, Peter.” 

He’s banking entirely on the kid’s contrary nature, and he holds his breath when Peter puts the glasses on himself and says, “E.D.I.T.H., transfer control.” 

Quentin can just barely hear E.D.I.T.H.’s voice, a quiet hum, and even though he can’t make out the words, he understands the meaning when Peter answers, “Quentin Beck.” 

He can’t believe his luck, his hands twitching at his sides. “Peter...” 

“Please confirm,” E.D.I.T.H. says, just loud enough for him to make out, and Peter replies, “Confirmed.” 

E.D.I.T.H. beeps lowly, and Peter takes off the glasses. “There.” He holds them out again, and Quentin takes them with a sigh. 

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Peter, for trusting me with this.” He folds the glasses before he steps closer, hooks a finger under Peter’s jaw. “I’ll be seeing you,” he says, calm, even though he wants to scream, instead kissing Peter one last time, and when he climbs out of the window, he’s grinning so widely his face hurts. 

A resounding success, if he says so himself.

*~*~*~*~*~* 

But of course he’s surrounded by idiots, and he realises he will have to kill Peter after all. Which is a shame, really, but honestly, what else is he supposed to do?

He thinks he got him with the train, he really does, poor, gullible Peter Parker who drops his guard the second Nick Fury shows up, but when he realises that Peter is in fact still very much alive, when he watches the illusion over the Thames collapse in on itself as Peter destroys his drones, he realises he will have to really play dirty. Dead Tony Stark wasn’t enough? Alright then.

Peter drops into a crouch on the other side of the covered walkway, and even though he’s wearing his mask, Quentin can tell the kid is absolutely furious, and he pushes. “Did you let Stark fuck you, too? I know you said you were a virgin, and you sure sounded like one, but you know, I wonder. Wouldn’t surprise me, knowing the man.” And it really wouldn’t, at least not the old Tony, before he found redemption in a fucking cave.

Peter’s whole body stiffens with rage, and Quentin smirks at him, before he activates the illusion. The room goes dark around Peter, and Quentin steps into the image, the figure disguising him now, and Peter whimpers. “No, don’t...”

He knows exactly what Peter is looking at, and again, he almost feels sorry for him.

Almost.

“Hey, kid,” he says with Tony Stark’s voice, and watches Peter’s tension melt away for a moment, before he stiffens again.

“You’re not real,” he says, and Quentin smirks down at him.

“Peter, Peter, Peter. Always trying to play with the big boys, and always failing.” He cocks his head to the side. “I wonder why I ever trusted you with anything, when you just go and disappoint me, every _single_ time.”

“Shut _up_ ,” and now Peter’s voice is choked with tears.

“Or what?” Quentin spreads his arms. “Are you going to hit me, Peter?” His smile widens, and Peter’s hand twitches into a fist. “Oh, touchy.” He steps forward then, suddenly, into Peter’s space, until he can feel the heat of his body. “I really should’ve put you over my knee instead of just taking away your toys,” he breathes, enjoys the hitch in Peter’s breathing.

Peter shoves him, hard, and Quentin stumbles back with a little laugh. “Get the hell away from me. You can’t trick me any more.”

“Can’t I,” he asks, and with a few taps on his controls, the image shifts, and now he’s Iron Man, not Tony Stark. “You’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass, and it’s time to clean up this mess.”

He steps back, lets a drone take his place, and he ignores E.D.I.T.H. when she tells him he’s too close, because really, what does she know, she’s nothing but a stupid-

He goes down, hard, and he is on fire, he is being ripped apart, and when he realises what’s happening, he grabs E.D.I.T.H., he creates a new illusion, and he grins to himself because even if he was too late to get his revenge on Stark, he can ruin his golden boy.

Peter grabs E.D.I.T.H. from him, then, after he has taken the gun, after Quentin lies bleeding at his feet, and when the boy asks E.D.I.T.H. if what he’s seeing is real, he knows he has succeeded at least in this.

“How could you do all of this,” Peter asks, his voice trembling, and Quentin manages to smirk at him, even as blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. “You’ll see, Peter. People… need to believe.” His smirk widens, and he can see the revulsion on Peter’s face. He can’t feel his legs any more, and he’s cold, but he keeps smirking up at the boy, watches the tears roll down his cheeks. “And nowadays, they’ll believe anything.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry. *flings self into the sun*


End file.
